Pentecost 14B2018
John 6:56-69
by Pastor Sarah Stadler
It’s not your imagination.
We really have been reading through John chapter six for the last six weeks, a passage in scripture dubbed The Bread of Life Discourse. In these six weeks, we have heard the story of the feeding of the 5,000 followed by four weeks of Jesus teaching: I am the bread of life. I am the living bread. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day. This final week, we hear the disciples, and they’re complaining. “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” Indeed, Jesus’ teaching is difficult. He teaches the people to eat his flesh and drink his blood. He teaches the people that he came down from heaven. He teaches the people that, if they eat of this bread and believe in him, they will never be hungry or thirsty again.
This teaching may sound like common Christian teaching to us, and we might not give it a second thought. But, on the other hand, eat Jesus’ flesh and blood? A human coming down from heaven? Not being hungry or thirsty again? I’m sorry. That’s cannibalism, make believe, and just biologically inaccurate. Or at least, that’s what the average person might say. Jesus does teach hard things. Even if we’ve been Christian all our lives, maybe we don’t believe some of the standard Christian teachings, like the Trinity or the paradox of God becoming human. Maybe we politely question Jesus’ ethical teachings like loving our enemies or giving away our possessions. Maybe we’re skeptical about John chapter six, eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood.
I am…skeptical. I question. I don’t believe everything the church commonly teaches. There was definitely a time in my life when I thought I might, like the followers of Jesus in today’s reading, turn back and no longer hang out with Jesus and his other followers. Please forgive me if you’re tired of hearing this story, but that time in my life was at the very same time that I knew I was called to ordained ministry. You see, I had grown up Lutheran and eagerly participated in many aspects of church life from a young age. When I went to college, I continued to pour myself into campus ministry. But I was majoring in religion and listening to my professors. I was reading new books and thinking new thoughts. I was meeting people who thought about God in ways very different from me. And through all that, I began to get angry: angry about the ways Christians failed. As we do—since we’re human. I saw the racism in the church, the sexism in the church, the homophobia and heterosexism in the church, and I got angry. I kept on going to church, but I was walking out of church services when I couldn’t handle the theology anymore. At camp over the summers, I was making other people mad by the questions I asked and the changes I suggested to our camp songs and policies. Radical feminist, that was me, is me. Ha! And right then, in the middle of my theological mess, in the middle of my doubts and anger, God called me to ordained ministry. At the time, people who loved me politely suggested that I seek a different career path, but despite all my skepticism and anger and questions, I knew God had called me to be a pastor.
I was one of those disciples of Jesus who said: This teaching is difficult; who can accept it? And having heard me, God asked, just as Jesus asks the disciples: Do you also wish to go away?
I love that Jesus asks the disciples: Do you also wish to go away? Such a gracious question. He doesn’t command them to follow. He just asks if the road is getting too tough. The way he asks it, it seems that he would be fine with a “no.” Because not following is an option.
Just as Jesus asks the disciples and God asked me, so I ask you: Do you also wish to go away?
Maybe you do. I would understand. The church at large, we have made so many mistakes, whether it’s personal affronts or systemic racism, widespread sexual abuse within the Roman Catholic Church or hurtful theology that excludes or reprimands people because of their sexual orientation. Maybe the difficulty in following is related not to the sins of the church but to God and things in our lives that just don’t seem fair. Why would God allow us to get cancer, our child to die, or us to lose our job or our home?
Wherever you are with that question, of whether you wish to go away, to stop following Jesus, I respect that. But I’ll tell you: I don’t wish to go away, and I’ll tell you why. Peter, Jesus’ disciple, hits the nose on the head when, in response to Jesus’ question, he asks: Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. Or in other words, who else are we going to follow? I’m being real now. I question Jesus; I do. But I follow Jesus because he leads me into life.
This past week, I met with someone in the congregation who was struggling with a difficult relationship. She talked; I listened. She described personal injustices; I was horrified. I wanted to fix the situation. I wanted to do justice on the part of the person I know and love. I made suggestions. I asked questions. After an hour, I was stumped. And then, she talked about how she tried to love the difficult person. And suddenly, light dawned. Words of eternal life poured forth, and she and I realized that seeing the other person with compassion was the key to unraveling the snarly, messy situation. Seeing Christ in the person and giving thanks to God for this person’s gifts wouldn’t necessarily change the person, but it would change our beloved sister’s attitude toward the person. And then we were praying for love and wisdom, compassion and forgiveness with wide open hearts. And we nearly danced our way to the office door where we said good-bye to one another, hearts lightened and faces shining.
Conversations like that keep me following for Jesus’ words are words of life.